


Together We Can

by AlzeahXei



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, OOC-ness, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlzeahXei/pseuds/AlzeahXei
Summary: Somethings aren't as they seemed.





	1. Has Strangers and Candies

Stiles was awakened by fingers combing through his scalp.

They weren’t callous, like dad. Or soothing, like mom. In fact, the slim fingers were rather cold.

Like ice cubes in water. Dropping the temperature of the water as it melt, how heat was manipulated into accepting cold invading its territory particle by particle. Sometimes the heat remains; sometimes cold conquers all.

Under the covers Stiles’ hand twitched a heartbeat long. It was dark in his room, only the silhouette of the drape could be seen on the floor, as shadow casted by the moonlight, so he wasn’t sure if the person has noticed. Or chose to ignore it. Stiles couldn’t tell anyway, since all he could do was staring sleepily at the large hood that masked away half of the person’s face, allowing only a defined chin and red lips to be on display.

“Little child,” The woman voice was like silk. Velvety and rich, with layers of guile hidden within. The voice Lydia would no doubt grow into. “Little, little child, with such a tiny heart, but so, so much love to give. And do you know who needs unconditional love from little children?” She spoke in a singing lilt, mocking. Haughty. “Adults. Human. Men and Women who had lost them, who foolishly misplaced them and couldn’t find them. And the saddest ones are those that forget about them.

“You and I, Little Child, have someone in common. Someone that I wanted more than anything to suffer for his sins. And fortunately for me, he has heart too.” Slim fingers slipped out of his curls and in return, one rested on his chest. Right above his heart. “He’s rather protective, of those he considered as his. Of those he considered as family. So let this be his lesson – happiness will always be just a breath away from him. When he found his,” The tip of her finger warmed, needles like the coarse morning stubble of his dad prickled at the point of contact. “When he gives more than a piece to you, yours in turn will be plucked away. Every single beat. Every single breath.”

It was rather weird, to watch a lip curled with the hint of giddiness and malice. A combination that has no right reason to exist in this world. “Nothing hurts more than watching a beloved one withers before you. Uncontrollable. Inevitable. Devastating.”

On his next blink, only the shadow of the drape entered his sight. Unable to keep them open anymore, Stiles let his heavy eyelids slid close as he returned to the comfort of darkness.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

The next day no one mention about the presence of a stranger in Stiles’ room last night.

He did shivered, though, when mom carded her fingers through his hair. Something flickered at the back of his mind – flitting and slippery. Like the word on the tip of your tongue. So close yet still out of reach.

“Are you alright, Stiles?” Claudia asked, crouching in front of him with one hand palming his forehead, while the other was on hers. She doesn’t bring out the digital thermometer unless there is a glaring difference between mother and son’s temperature.

Stiles bobbed his head, with mom’s hand attached and swaying along. “’M fine.”

His subdued voice had both his parents exchanged glances, a whole conversation completed with the mere gestures of arching a brow, widened eyes, a tic at the corner of the lips, and flailing arms. (And his teachers thought his thrashing hands were the result of his ADHD. They have yet to see his parents yelling at the T.V. at movie nights).

“Come on, kiddo,” His dad scooped him up and sneaked a tickle on his tummy, earning a squeal and barely managed to dodge Stiles’ elbow in time. “We can leave now and I’ll take you for a round of patrol.” John grinned and bounced his son. “Maybe the dispatch will have something for us and I’ll have a reason to switch on the siren.”

“Yeah!” Stiles threw both of his hands up, knocking his dad’s temple on their way up.

Claudia rolled her eyes as she cleared the dishes away, though her fond smile remained firm. “And I’ll be here, laughing my tears off when the station receives a call about public disturbance.” She snickered into the bubbles on her hand when both boys booed at her.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Mom died a week before Halloween.

Which was rather ironic, because Halloween was the day that the Pumpkin King allowing all his denizens to visit Earth. So his mom would be here with them, giving Mortals a good scare for a night.

If only he could see her, that is.

They didn’t make a costume for that year. Mom couldn’t sew in a proper straight line, and the family didn’t have the same amount of fun and anticipation without mother and son holing up in the kitchen whole morning, dipping apples into caramel sauce or banana into melted-chocolate and wrapping them up in gift bags of different patterns, lining them up in a basket and ready for any trick o’ treaters knocking on their doors.

His dad had a late shift on Halloween, out on the road patrolling for any inappropriate pranks and misdemeanor. He’d asked Stiles if he would like to be at the McCall’s house tonight, since Melissa has a day off, but Stiles declined. John only ruffled his son hair and kissed his forehead in understanding.

Neither of them have the festive cheer to join the others. Nor was anyone expecting them to anyway.

John made sure all the doors and windows were locked before he left the house, accepting a last hug from Stiles before he jogged to the police cruiser. Stiles watched from the window perch until the cruiser’s tail light turned at a junction and out of sight, and then he slipped back to the couch, continued watching as Jack explored the wonders of Christmas Town by scoffing down a handful of snow, and was delighted by the cold melting in his mouth.

When the movie ended, it was time for bed.

As he climbed up the stairs, he listened to his footstep echoed in the quiet house rather than the screams and wails as the children played. As parents keeping up with their children excitement. As friends hid behind a bush to leap and scare the others.

The Stilinski house was quiet tonight, and might be so for a while longer.

Stiles didn’t look at the mirror as he brushed his teeth, didn’t want to see the morose face that would stare back at him – sad and hollow. Didn’t want to expect for another reflection to appear beside him.

He kept his head down, walked to his room just as his body remembered. So it was rather shocking for Stiles to not recognize his bedroom when he lifted his gaze back up.

No, really, it wasn’t just a furniture overhaul. The space of his room had transformed, completely, leaving no trace of his belongings behind.

And Stiles…was gobsmacked. Yes, that was the only appropriate word he could relate to now.

He blinked, slowly, then flittingly, even pinched his thigh hard to ensure he wasn’t in a hallucination. His fingers reached out to brush the wall he’s closest to. The stone was cold to the touch, but not an uncomfortable one, just a temperature absorbed from the night before. Some of the masonry was as smooth as silk, while others the coarseness of wrinkled paper. There were carving of words of language that Stiles didn’t understand, or diagrams with too much circles and squares intersecting one and another.

He thought he felt the wall thrummed beneath his fingers. He assumed that it wasn’t much of a surprise if it was true.

The walls were ancient. As old as civilization. And it’s impossible to live that long without collecting something on the way, without feeling bored and intrigued all the same.

Even if they do not breathe or feed.

The room remained quiet, save for the crackling of candles in their respective niche, the light sufficient for Stiles to register that this room was a library. Or has a similar function as a library, with an abundance of books on shelves and some in random piles on the tables around. The ones that caught Stiles’ attention, though, were the heavy tomes chained to metal racks – each occupied a hexagon frame with two horizontal slim chains securing it in place.

At the back of Stiles’ mind a voice that sounded exactly like his dad warning him to ‘see but don’t touch, Stiles, especially if they look important. And fragile’.

All ten fingers twitched at his sides, as well as his toes, but Stiles remained still as he chewed his bottom lip. Eagerness was about to bully its way out of his skin, and control could only hold the leash for so long.

That was, until another item caught his attention.

There, at the end of the table, on a simple carved pedestal, rested a golden ball. Just like the ball in the story where it’d brought the princess to meet her future husband. Candle light glinted off its smooth surface, showing off the perfect sphere the gold molded into.

Before his mind had register his movement, Stiles’ finger had come into contact with the golden ball, and in an instant a mist wrapped around the ball, the gleam no longer available.

The realization gasp that escaped was a beat too late.

“It’s all right, no harm done.” Stiles swiveled on his feet, eyes wide and breath caught in his frozen lungs. The lady before him was fair and bald, but her eyes were so deep Stiles fear he would drown in them even before he touch the surface. It was a bad time too for his mind to finally note the dormant fear. “Deep breath, child. There’s no need to overwork your brain and heart.” The lady soothed as she approached him, her hands stayed on her back with no indication that she’d reach out to him.

Sometimes it’s easier if his dad holds him as he listens to his steady heartbeat. Sometimes it’s easier if no one touch Stiles, not even his dad. John can tell the difference.

He’s grateful that she could too.

When his heart didn’t feel like it’s about to leap out of his throat, every deep inhale helped Stiles to gain the control of his trembling limbs and cleared his mind. With the last slow exhale, Stiles finally turned to regard the lady. “I…”

She merely tipped her smile at him, while one hand cradled the dull golden ball, her reflection distorted from the mist on it.

Stiles filled his lungs and tried again. “It’s bed time…but my door opened to the wrong room. I think…I think I’m lost.”

Her head rolled back and a laugh burst out of her, soft yet unrestricted. Unhesitant as it echoed throughout the room.

“Ancient One?” Her voice must have drawn someone’s attention. Or…from the multiple footsteps that were drawing nearer, not just one. From their instant appearance, they must have been standing on guard just outside of the library. Most of the people gathered were in rust-colored garment, while only a handful wore distinctive robes like the Ancient One.

Disciples then?

“As you can see, I’m in no harm.” Her laughter dwindled down to giggles. “Just a little mere case of…” Her hand gestured at Stiles, drawing everyone’s attention on him. It was hard for Stiles to refrain from jumping off his feet. “Displacement.”

“And how did he enter Kamar-Taj without anyone detecting his presence?” A burly man asked, his voice a solemn demand for Stiles to explain himself. And Stiles would, if only he too knew what he had gotten into.

His fingers were about to work themselves into a knot, with all the wringing going on.

“Like I’d said, just a small matter of displacement.” Ancient One had the golden ball wrapped in plain cloth, a rough fabric like the robe she’s wearing. “Nothing to be alarmed of, Wong.”

“Are you certain he’s not a distraction, not a trap?” Someone asked from Wong’s back.

Ancient One didn’t reply immediately. With a purse of her lips she came to stand beside Stiles. “Master Hamir, what do you see in this child?”

The disciples parted neatly aside for Master Hamir to come to the fore. He stared at Stiles with sharp eyes, but unlike Wong’s reproachful look, Master Hamir’s was more of searching, of reckoning and understanding. “He was touch by magic, but not of our dimension. And it’s not a kind one either.”

Murmurs were an instant wave rolling around the room. Some concerned, some questioning, and most were distressed.

“Is that why he was sent here?” Wong asked at last, and the murmurs came to a halt so that everyone could hear the Ancient One’s reply.

Ancient One angled her chin at Stiles, her eyes calm as he’d first met her. “No, no one sent him. He merely opened the door, and Kamar-Taj had let him in.”

“Just like that?” One blonde disciple asked, doubt coloring her words.

“Kamar-Taj is ancient, was built along with civilization. Kamar-Taj has grew alongside the ever evolving society and yet still preserving its core disposition.” A soft smirk directed at the group, mischief a hint at the corner of her lips. “And besides, do you all here still question the works of magic?”

This time the murmurs burst in a flurry. Words were much more graspable to Stiles’ ears – not comprehensible, but at least he knew they weren’t all gibberish.

After a moment of heated discussion, one dark skin disciple came forward. “And what is your next intent?”

“My next intent.” The hand that wasn’t holding the ball reached forward and hovered between them, a polite distance for Stiles to refuse, but the gesture drew an audible sharp gasp from a few of the disciples. “I believe you said it was past your bedtime, hmmm?”

Stiles nodded, he glanced at her hand, and then the door, and finally back to the Ancient One’s hand again. When he took it, the sharp inhale in the background this time was more of uncomfortable than bewilderment. Ancient One straightened her back and gave the audience a dazzling smile. “Well then, I’m sure you have task to attend to–”

“You’re leaving with him?” The dark skin disciple cried out in shock. “Alone?”

Ancient One tipped her head minutely, as if she doesn’t understand the outburst of reactions from her disciples. “I’m only taking him home, Mordo. I won’t be gone too long, and I’m sure that if something does happen in the time of my absence, you’ll be able to handle it, or hold it up until my return.”

“That’s not what we’re concern about, Ancient One.” Mordo retorted dryly.

“That’s settled then.” Ancient One nodded enthusiastically as she rested her hand between Stiles’ shoulder blades and led him back towards the door. She was quick in her steps, but at a speed that Stiles could follow without much exertion. With a gentle push the door opened, and Stiles found himself back to a familiar corridor. Only two light remained at each end of the corridor just in case his father comes back to check on his son, or just so that Stiles won’t stumble and trip searching for the toilet in the dark.

“Aah,” Stiles turned his gaze on Ancient One as she looked out of the window, watching as cheering children and hooting teens passed by the pavement. At this time most of the bags on their arms were half fill with all kinds of confectionaries and candies. “I almost forgot, it’s Halloween today, isn’t it?” She turned to meet him with a grin.

There was something in her grin though, that Stiles can’t help but to ask, “Do you want to go trick-or-treating?”

Even though he had refused Scott’s urging to go together.

She was visibly surprised by his question, and made no effort in masking it, like adults do when the shock given by a child didn’t humor them instead. Ancient One returned her gaze at the celebration outside, her words a little baffled as she spoke them out. “It’s been…” Her next grin had a great effect of splitting her face in half. “Do you have houses with lavish decorations in your neighborhood? I like to gawk at them.”

Stiles couldn’t tell if she has move on to joking, what with her wide smile still in place, and then he decided that there wouldn’t be any harm in indulging her. Besides, it was Halloween tonight, no one in Beacon Hills would have stare too long without shrugging Ancient One off as a costume fan or something alike.

He heard garments like this were pretty much normal in the big cities that no one would even bat an eyelid, let alone do a double take.

“The Martin and Whittemore’s are some of the top contenders. We can start with the most boring ones and go up from there?”

It was weird, to see the depth in her eyes was no longer a dark chasm. Stiles couldn’t decide if he should feel relief either.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

There was a knock on his door before Clarke shoved her head through the door gap. “Sheriff?”

“Yes, Clarke.”

“Didn’t you say Stiles decided to stay home this year, despite our very wholehearted welcoming if he wants to come trick-or-treating here?”

Finally John looked up from the reports in hand. It was a quiet night for the station and his deputies, and it would be hours long before it’s his turn to go on a patrol. “Yes?”

“Ummm, so…I wonder what your reaction will be when you see him at the parking lot, with someone we can’t identify…yet?” Her finger helpfully pointed at the aforementioned direction.

“WHAT?”

Clarke barely darted out of way as the sheriff dashed passed her, demanding answers from her without even bother to check if she is following behind. “What do you mean someone you can’t identify? And you left my son alone with him? Her? Who?”

An indignant huff trailed behind him, prompting John to give his deputy a short glare over his shoulder. He didn’t want to accidentally bump into a desk or baskets in his rush – though he didn’t think it’s bad if it could draw a laugh or two out of Stiles later. “We know the procedures, oh great Sheriff. So no, we did not leave your son alone with a stranger. Jordan is outside with him. And is a ‘her’, if you’re still interested.”

“What have I done to deserve snarky deputies all around the station.”

Clarke reply to her boss grousing was with a round of laughter. Strauss piped up from his cubicle, a grin over the divider. “You shouldn’t have agreed to put your name into the election box then.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“Stiles!”

He cringed upon hearing his dad’s yelling his name. And worst, he’s fuming within reason. Stiles cut a glare at Deputy Parrish when his ears caught his chuckles. When he returned his attention back front, his dad was already standing in front of him, eyes roving over him from head to toe to check for any bruises or cuts.

Stiles sighed and his shoulders dropped. “I’m fine, dad.” Before his dad could pour words out of his opened mouth, Stiles continued. “No, I wasn’t kidnapped. Yes, I know I’m not supposed to follow any stranger, but she’s…kinda not?” Stiles glanced at Ancient One as he listed for a suitable title for them. Ancient One merely allowed her brow to rise higher at each description. “Acquaintance…allies…partners in crime?” Stiles flailed his arms around as a poor parody of placating his dad who’s red in the face now. “WHAT I mean is that she’s not the bad guy. And besides, you taught me to trust my instinct – and it’s been telling me since we met that she’s on the good side.”

John stood there taking in a deep breath. Or two. Or three. Or…possibly more until his body was no longer shaking in tension. When he let out a last long and shuddering exhale, John straightened back up and looked at Ancient One instead. He decided he’s going to need more patience dealing with his son, when Stiles was fill with food and drowsy from a full stomach. “I’m sorry, I haven’t gotten your name yet.”

“Just call me Ancient One,” The woman shrugged and when her eyes met Stiles’, both grinned with an inside joke. The corner of John’s eye twitched at the possibility of Stiles having something in common with a stranger he must have just met for a few minutes long. “It’s my…role, for tonight.”

“Right…and you’re here with my son because…”

“Stiles is showing me the decorations around the neighborhood. Congratulations, the station is quite high on the list.”

“Right?” Stiles beamed when their eyes met. “I helped to make those shrunken heads!” He pointed at the rows of ‘heads’ hanging at the front of the station, occasionally swaying with the evening breeze, like a silent waltz only they knew the rhythm to. “Deputies with families volunteered with their own hand-made crafts too, and the station is the only place that you can dump everything in and still make sense.”

Ancient One smiled as she took in the carved pumpkins with top hats by the flowerbed, witches with bridal veils on brooms by the door, tombstones with spindly hands by the window, and there seemed to be a skeleton couple sunbathing on the roofs. “It is definitely interesting. And eye-catching.”

“You haven’t seen Whittemore ones YET. They like to show off.”

“Oh?”

Stiles nodded gravely, his lips pursed in a straight line. “One year they actually hired a crew to decorate their house like the scenes in ‘Rocky Horror’. It’s a tad creepy. Like I said, show offs.” He huffed vindictively. Ancient One only responded with a burst of laughter.

“Stiles.” It was meant to chastised, but everyone could hear that John’s voice was anything but. He took a glance at Ancient One, trying to read her for any alternative motive, then his gaze was on his son, at his wobbling lips trying to reign in a giggle, at his limbs that never seemed to tire, at his eyes that seemed to be a little more bright tonight, and headed into the station. When he came back out he handed a handful of candies to Ancient One, and she held her treats with much bemusement and delight.

“I don’t think I can trust you yet. I know my son does, but it’s impossible for us parents to go against our protective instinct, especially without prior announcement.” Ancient One didn’t look away from his grim eyes, merely accepting his every gaze and words serenely, but not idly. Something click in his mind, the instinct of a police officer, and John nodded at her, and Ancient One returned the acknowledgement with a gentle tilt at the corner of her lips. “You’re in charge of the candies. Just don’t let him finish all tonight.”

An understanding grin directed back at him. “Sugar rush.”

“And terrifyingly more than that.” John sighed and turned to Stiles, drawing the boy’s attention away from the candies. “And you, go home once you finish the tour.”

Stiles nodded. “I’ll call you when I get home?”

“Do.” John hands made a shooing gesture. “Now go on. And try not to get into any trouble.”

“Okay!” Both Stiles and Ancient One were out of the parking lot, Stiles made his choice while Ancient One picked his choice out of the mountains of treats in her palm, her movement so graceful the treats didn’t even quiver as she pulled out a Reese from under the mix.

“You want us to follow them?” Parrish suggested as his eyes stayed on them too, until they turned down to another street. Stiles was the current station’s mascot, he has a little of every deputies’ heart in that palm of his. “Lewis and I won’t mind another round of patrol.”

John stared for another minute and shook his head. “Nah, it’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Not really, no.” John patted his deputy on the shoulder and turned on his feet. “But like Stiles said, I trust her to be on the good side.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

By the time he called his dad and went another round of Nightmare Before Christmas with Ancient One, Stiles was on his twelfth yawn.

“Do you have a good time tonight?” Stiles rolled onward with the thirteenth as they stood outside of his bedroom. Kamar-Taj remained attached to the Stilinski house, but Ancient One promised that the next time he opens the door, all would be back to once it was.

“Yes.” Ancient one’s smile was small but steady, genuine. “It’s been a while since I last participate in any festivals of this world. Many things have changed, touches from new generations, but many traditions are well preserved too.” She bent on her knees and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, a firm hug that felt more like an anchor than a blanket. “Thank you for sharing the fun, even as your sorrow echoes around you. It’s a difficult step to take, for your wound is fresh, and I’m grateful that you did. It’s truly an honor to have your courage and trust accompany me tonight. Thank you.”

Stiles rested his cheek on her shoulder and chewed on his bottom lip. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mom likes the festivals too. She wouldn’t want anyone to miss out on the fun, and celebrations mean we get to spread fun to everyone, no matter skin color or species. If it gets you to laugh, it’s something to enjoy, to share about. If it doesn’t, well, maybe try again next time.”

A breath of warm air brush over his locks as Ancient One huffed out her amusement. “Next time then.”

She didn’t mention the soaked spot by the shoulder, nor seemed to take note of it. Ancient One’s smile was the last memento his mind stored. When he opened the door again, everything were back to usual – his Batman-themed bed by the wall, his study desk by the window, his dresser and shelves half filled with comics and novels. And maybe some with poems and dinosaurs.


	2. Has Cloak and Library

He was fourteen when his bedroom door opened to the wrong room. “Again? Seriously?” Stiles exclaimed under his breath as his shoulders dropped at the sight of unfamiliar corridor. The hallway was dim, brightened only by the light pouring in from the French doors and windows. The view beyond the glass was foreign, which Stiles was certain the land this mansion sat on was too. He has a winning hand that this is a mansion. The ceiling looked expensive, let alone the paintings and the potteries decorating the rest of the empty spaces.

His neck stretched passed the door frame, taking in the sight of tacky wallpaper and archaic woodworks that gave the mansion its own personality. Green seemed to be a constant theme, dark or faded.

Stiles was grateful that it didn’t scream ‘RESIDENCE FOR THE GERIATRIC OR CANNIBALISM’ despite the historic disposition around. The place was unusually quiet too, as Stiles strained his ear for any presence other than him as he ventured through the corridor, each step quiet despite the wooden floorboards.

He came to a stop at the end of the hallway, his hand sliding along a handrail while he faced a dome window with arch ceiling and a room filled with more antiques and peculiar relics. He spied a few weapons on display and widened his eyes as he spotted a bondage-practice-sort-of equipment that looked forged predate Medieval on the other wall. His couldn’t resist the shudder that ran through his spine as light gleamed wickedly over the bolts and rods.

Maybe it’s best for him to go back and figure his sleeping arrangement later tonight.

He was taking a step back when a red spot appeared in his periphery. He tried to blink it away, and when it didn’t budge, Stiles finally turned his eyes to acknowledge it – which turned out to be a cloak. A red cloak hovering in air.

“Ummm,” Stiles was aware he’s rudely pointing at the cloak, but that gesture took a back seat in his mind. Priorities and stuff. “You weren’t here just now.”

Something in his mind whispered ‘magic’, so his stomach was relatively calm and not leaping about in panic as the cloak drifted closer, the collar tipped to one side as if considering him, evaluating him as it glided a neat circle around Stiles, not too close as to crowd him. Stiles was aware that he’s standing next to the rail, and only hoped the cloak wouldn’t decide to do a shocking act out of the blue.

“Heeey,” His mind was not equipped to deal with a hovering cloak, but surprise has yet to bubble to the surface. Maybe somewhere inside Stiles had come to accept that whenever his bedroom door opened to a new place, something was bound to smack his mind a new perspective, a snap of fingers as from some powers that be so he could realized soon that there was more in this world other than heroes in suit or mutants with evolved genes.

And he did remember someone, from four years ago, when he stumbled into a wrong room on Halloween.

“Do you know someone by the name of Ancient One?” Stiles asked, hesitance coloring his question. He has no doubt the cloak is as sentient as any being that can add two and two into four, but that didn’t mean he doesn’t feel awkward in doing so, especially when the cloak nodded heartily, the end jingled along with each bob from the collar. “Is she around then? Is she here?”

The cloak halted all movement in a blink, fabric settling still was the only evidence it once moved. It hunched by the shoulder, the collar shaking from left to right desolately. “She’s at Kamar-Taj?” The cloak seemed surprised by the name, perking up to stare at Stiles before giving him the negative. “No? Travelling then?” Another negative. This time, instead of letting Stiles to go another round of guessing, the cloak’s golden buckle flapped and waved around in a series of movement, from pointing to the bottom foyer to reenacting offensive and defensive fight stances and a parody of whipping and running from a chase.

“Are you…” Both brows were climbing closer to his hairline as Stiles watched the cloak do a backflip. “You are, are you– are we doing charades?” The cloak zoomed around the room in high speed, sometimes bouncing around from one surface to another while both buckles made complicated gestures, as if drawing a symbol or something. “Miming? Pantomime? I don’t get–” Then it lowered and faced an imaginative foe, the buckle poised for attack. The edge of the cloak swiped and buckles lashed out and kick and duck and somehow in between the cloak found a blade, got stabbed, and fell to the ground in a messy heap of fabric, the metal blade clanged harshly as it crashed to the floor.

Stiles got it. He still doesn’t understand 95% of it, but he got the focal point of the whole act the moment he felt the familiar tugging in his chest, the icy numb that climbed and curled around his heart.

Despite feeling that all air was punched out of him, Stiles managed to let out a gust of air through his opened mouth. “She’s not here anymore, isn’t she.” His voice sounded small, distant, as if a wall apart.

His shoulders jerked minutely when something landed on them, and then soft fabric caressed his cheek. There was no tear, and Stiles choked out a humorless laugh. “Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t–I should…You must have known her for years, right? And I only have known her for one night. I…” The cloak enveloped him in a tighter hug. “I’m sorry, for your lost. She helped me, that night, helped me get back home, and I showed her the neighborhood. It was Halloween, and she loved the decorations, even the plain ones.

“She said, she said it has been a while since she last participated in Halloween, or even celebrated a holiday, and she’s a stranger. She’s a stranger, and I didn’t care, and dad didn’t mind too much too, at the end.” Stiles sighed, a sharp breath in the silent space. “Do you think she had fun? Touring a small town and watching an animated movie meant for children and eating candies.”

The cloak continued to caress his cheek, even when he didn’t cry.

Maybe he was delusional, or selfish, or just self-indulgent, but somehow Stiles felt as if the cloak assuring him that Ancient One did had fun that night, no matter how short it had been. It was strangely reassuring from an animated garment, but it wasn’t unwelcome. “Thanks. I was never–I have never been great in dealing with goodbyes that last forever. I hate it.” He took a deep breath, this time air flowed into his lungs without much difficulty, fingers loosened their clench on the rail. “I’m glad to have met her too.”

The collar tilted a little, a small nod.

Stiles gave the room a rounding glance; the cloak stayed on his shoulder and brushed his calf as it swayed along. “Was this her home?”

The collar waved from side to side. No.

“Huh,” His fingers rubbed at the seam, the corner of his mouth lifted a tick. “My bedroom door needs to stop leading me to some strangers’ place; I don’t want to be remembered as the teenager who got a premature cardiac arrest right outside of his bedroom. Do you know how much gossip can come out just from the pictures?” Stiles grinned and tapped the cloak by the shoulder, amusement vibrating on his skin. “What should I call you anyway? Cloak? Cloaky? Floaty the Drifter?”

The cloak lifted off his shoulder and gave his arm an indignant smack, which packed much in a punch. “Ow! Okay okay, bad suggestions.” As Stiles nursed the sore part, they started down the hallway. He looked at the end of the cloak, an inch above ground. “This is like David’s tricks, you know, just weirder when you involved a sentient costume. How ‘bout Levy, short for levitation?”

The hollow of the collar met his eyes, contemplating, and finally nods.

“Levy,” Stiles tried the name and the cloak nodded in acceptance. Stiles grinned and remembered his dad once warned him the danger of naming things, especially when attachment issue is involved. “Think you can get someone to detach our home before it gets complicated?”

Levy’s shoulders dropped, and Stiles had the feeling of staring at a kicked puppy with sad, sad eyes. “FYI, it’s my bedroom. I need somewhere to sleep tonight. And no, I’m not taking the guest room, my dad will get suspicious and won’t end well on my end.” A buckle pointed at one of the room they walked by. Stiles couldn’t stop the laughter in time. “No. No, bad idea. Dad’s a cop, I’m a teenager hitting puberty, he ALWAYS checks on me. How am I going to explain to him when he opens the door, huh? ‘Hey dad, looks like some other house is bad touching ours’ doesn’t sound crazy, at all.”

Glee was rolling off Levy like waves, in the sense that the whole fabric shuddered. Stiles wasn’t sure if he wants to know which sentence in his babble the cloak found amusing. Those were valid concerns.

Stiles pushed the door that linked to his corridor, a hand raised to wave and was instead tapped on the palm from the collar, much to Stiles’ surprise, joy dancing around his smile. “Nice meeting you too, Levy.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Two years later, he was involved in a homicide. No, he’s not the victim. Not the murderer either.

He just came to stumble upon the dump site of the body in the preserve, that’s it.

Although that reasoning wasn’t enough to douse John’s wrath when he arrived with the rest of the deputies, at three in the morning.

“What were you thinking?” Were the words his dad yelled at him first, his face ruddy with anger as they stood aside from the secured site, behind him deputies were collecting evidences and coroner estimating the time of death and cause. “Why aren’t you at home? You’re supposed to be in bed, and not tripping over a dead body.”

“Well dad,” Stiles dragged the consonant, taking a glance at everything around him but his father and the body. “I was…retrieving something.”

“Retrieving what, exactly?”

“My shoe?”

John eyes narrowed at the pair of sneakers that was Stiles favorite and daily footwear. He was staring at them for so long with grim lines shadowing his face that Stiles couldn’t help but to squirm around. Finally, John sighed, his breath drawn out in long strip. He craned over a shoulder and caught one of the deputies’ eyes. “Derek, take Stiles to the station. Take his statement and then head home.” “Wait! What about my jeep?”

The next word wilted and died a pitiful death in his throat when John directed his frown on his son. “Grounded?” Stiles managed to squeak.

“Until further notice.”

Translation: Until either some miracle gets you back into my good graces or your beard turns white.

Stiles’ shoulders fell as if his hands were lead as Derek herded him out to his cruiser. Once strap in, Stiles began to bang his forehead against the dashboard.

“Stop that.” Derek groused out, more irritation than concern. “You should have known better.”

“Knowing better doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do anything.” Stiles snapped back. Derek merely arched a brow in reply.

No one was on his side today.

Just…who could blame him? He has detective genes in him, an obvious inheritance, and there happened to be two homicide cases – it’s just Stiles’ luck to find the second one – within the span of three weeks. It’s big news in a small town like Beacon Hills, and the neighbors were vibrating with worry, despite the enforced curfew and extra patrol. Finding out that this case was related to another two in Sacramento and Arizona – SERIAL KILLER, HURRAAAH – was like dangling a carrot before the donkey, especially after he caught words that the entire department was out searching for a body.

Hook, line, sinker.

Derek drove him back home once he put his name on the statement and followed him to the front door. Stiles stuck a key into the hole before turning and hurled Derek an impatient frown. “I’m home, and I won’t be out anymore. Stop hovering already.”

“Stiles,” Derek sighed, and any fighting spirit inside Stiles flushed out at the concern shining through the deputy’s eyes, despite his whole body screaming ‘TIRED’. Stiles flung both arms around him and drew him in for a tight hug, and was glad when it was reciprocated as Derek rested his forehead on his shoulder.

They weren’t out to the public, but it wasn’t a secret to the sheriff either when he first found out that his son was dating his eight-years-older deputy. They met last year, when neither knew they were associated to each other through John, thus enacting a poor cliché of worst first impression – Stiles spilled coffee on Derek when he’s on the way out, Derek was a jerk with judging brows, Stiles was an asshole with sarcastic tongue, and the whole department was watching them, with popcorn involved.

Regardless of the late introduction or the senior deputies vouching for his charms, it took a while for Stiles to warm up to Derek, and vice versa, until they bumped into each other again at the grocery store, where Stiles spied a basket full of frozen foods. They were Derek’s staple diet apparently, daily so, and something inside Stiles cracked. Before he was conscious about it, Derek was at their dining table, inhaling a second serving of spinach lasagna, while John was taking each scoop with an additional dose of amusement.

He left the Stilinski house with a container of leftovers and an order from Stiles to come for dinner whenever he’s available. The extra information that Derek was living on his own with his entire family in Big Apple (courtesy of his dad and deputies) was utterly irrelevant.

Neither knew when the hostility started to mellow out (the ones in the sidelines weren’t that oblivious, even Scott noticed – that was, that was just sad), only that Stiles’ defensive thorns didn’t spike up automatically or Derek managed a barely-there smile the longer they were left alone. Sometimes, on good days, they could be found jogging together by the preserve or Derek stealing a bite of ice-cream from Stiles.

They even bonded over snake topics when Derek told them his sister was volunteering at an animal shelter.

_(“I had a boa once. She was the only pet that won’t die if I only remember to feed it two days later.”_

_“We had to let it up for adoption,” John butted in after he swallowed a mouthful of fried rice. “After I found it trying to strangle Stiles in the middle of the night.”_

_A spoon was hovering inches away from Derek’s mouth, he paused to openly gape at Stiles. The teenager only shrugged while chewing through his food._

_“I forgot to double check the lock. I guess one mice isn’t enough for an 18 feet boa.”)_

John told them it was like watching a train-wreck, painful yet unavoidable.

Oh it was unavoidable all right. Because when their lips first touch, it was like homecoming, and Stiles never felt better.

(Not even when John called an hour later about Mrs. Anderson’s claims that his deputy had besmirched his son on the front porch could make him regret it.)

“Stiles.”

“Hmm?” Stiles turned to rest his lips on the shell of Derek’s ear, each exhale stirring the fine hair on his nape.

“John said we won’t be able to hide the case from you – you always find something out in the end. So, for now, can you promise me to stay safe?” The tip of their nose touched as Derek leaned his forehead on Stiles’. “For me?”

Stiles let a burst of air out, accompanied by an exasperated groan as fingers hooked onto the belt. “Fine. I won’t stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. YET. Don’t expect me to wait too long.”

“We’ll see,” Derek dipped his chin for a kiss, slow and savoring for lost times with all Beacon County’s workforces involved in finding the serial killer. They kept it chaste though, in case of gossiping neighbors, and the fact that Stiles was two years away from legal consenting age.

It sucked sometimes, when all he wanted was to ride along with passion and hormones.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

A few days later Derek brought the files and spread them on all surface of the dining table.

Stiles didn’t crow as he read in the fun stuffs, and found out later the reason for their sudden generosity.

A photo was attached as evidence with one of the files – a snapshot of the Debate Team from 2000. When they won the nationals. Two guys and three girls with hands on each other’s shoulders or hips.

And out of the five, four had been found death by strangulation and post-death stabs. The last girl had died ten years ago, post mortem had found metformin in her blood stream and concluded that she had mistakenly consumed the diabetic medicine meant for her mother that sat beside her bottle of vitamins.

There was an itch as the back of his mind.

“So with all players dead, now all you have to do is to find the villain, right?”

John nodded and rubbed a thumb on his temple as he read through the files. “Sacramento and Arizona agreed to keep us in the loop when they find anything useful, and they want to bring in Federal Agents to review–”

“FBI?” Stiles’ nose scrunched in distaste. “Does that mean Mr. McCall will be here too?”

“Unless there is conflict of interest or any other viable reason for him not to take this case, I doubt he’ll keep his nose out of this.” His dad said, jaw tight and brows heavy on top of his eyes.

No Stilinskis like Rafael McCall, the two timing asshole with too much ego and not enough constraint.

“We’ll just have to find the killer first,” Stiles declared matter-of-factly, and waved off the incredulous stares bouncing onto him. “We just have to who has a major hard on for the Debate Team – I mean, look at the stabs wound, it’s like the murderer realized it’s not fulfilling enough to asphyxiate their victim, they go and stab repeatedly until either they’re satisfied or not angry anymore. Someone must’ve been let down pretty hard to have this much hate.”

Stiles picked up the photograph, staring at the five victims then flipped around the back, the feeling of missing something gnawing his mind. “This is the only photo the team got?”

“Either that, or the only one worth keeping.” Derek said. “We found this in the last victim’s house, framed up and hanging in the living room.”

“Only one?”

“Mrs. Genier mentioned that her daughter’s always been sentimental. Said she liked to keep every piece of her life close to her.”

“But they don’t get together much, do they?” Stiles picked up a neatly listed phone records. “No calls, no text, not even an email. And you’d think she’d be the one to organize a get-together or something.”

“Maybe she’s only interested in mementos rather than relationship.” John added in his two cents. “You’re in high school, son, you know how fickle relationships between friends can be. One moment you’re attached at the hip, the next you’re on either side of earth.”

Stiles’ mind floated through the corridor of Beacon High, where everyday teenage drama of love and betrayal relived and rewind. He was lucky to have Scott by his side since first grade, and shuddered at the thought of manipulating relationship into something else.

“Yeeeah, you’re right. Hormonal adolescent are so mess up, especially when they can’t keep it in their pants.”

Derek choked into his drink while the sheriff groaned long-sufferingly.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

The itch followed him relentlessly for days after. It’s getting harder not to scratch like a dog riddled with fleas in the middle of a library.

Stiles huffed as he went through the yearbook of 2000 and any newsletter published regarding the Debate Team. They were the average teammates that came together for a goal to win and climb up the society ladder with any fame they could get their hands on. And coming out as champions in nationals were big news for a small town like Beacon Hills, a sensation worthy to be on every mother and aunt’s lips for the next three years.

Or that was what the reply was when they questioned the graduates from that year.

The members of the Debate Team weren’t outrageously popular like the cheering squad or any other sport teams that featured too much muscles or perfect jaws, but no one outright despise them either (not when no one notices them, Stiles snorted in thought).

And the girl that died ten years ago – Hailey Wallace. The police found that the Wallace family did regularly store their medicines together, so it wasn’t in question Hailey would mistakenly took her mother’s medicine. But with a cabinet full of poison and supplements, wouldn't common sense dictate to check the label first before popping a pill?

There were too much question, but no common link to draw them together.

When Stiles finally straightened his neck, he cursed under his breath as his bones protested with a vengeance since he has been bowing his head for over an hour. And no wonder they complained since the view outside told him that the library is few minutes from closing time and he’s the only one still around. Stiles didn’t toyed with the thought of how pathetic that looked as he packed away the reading materials and cleared all windows before heading home.

As he passed the empty counter with a customary goodbye for Mr. Landon, wherever he was, a glint caught his attention instead. A photo frame facing down.

Something was nagging at the back of his mind until he walked straight up and leaped onto the counter, arm stretched out to right the frame back on its stand. Huh, it’s the photo of the Debate Team, and there are…six people in it–

–Was the last thought flitting to the fore of his mind when a loud crack burst into his ears and he was out cold.


	3. Has Bloods and Beard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of bully and suicide.

Gradual awakening sucks sometimes, especially when you had a blow to the back of your head and the first thing you’re aware of was the ache drumming like an over-excited kid into you skull.

His eyes opened to a pair of legs pacing back and fro, a stream of chanting pouring into his ear as dust pollens stirred in the air. “–dn’t see it. He shouldn’t NOTICE it! Why did he notice it? He can’t let anyone else know. I can’t let him–” A harsh breath whistled into his lungs the moment Mr. Landon noticed Stiles was no longer out of commission. “Stiles.” He croaked out, eyes wide and skin ash.

The librarian has healthy skin for the times he spent walking under the sun from home to work. But now, under the luminescent light, his complexion seemed ghastly, too white with too many lines that had seen and done more than just books and patrons. Alive ones, that is.

“Mr. Landon,” Stiles tried not to let his words slur too much as he propped himself up on his elbows, taking note that his hands and legs were bound with cable ties. Typical. “Who’s the sixth girl in the photo?”

Mr. Landon’s brows dropped, agitation no longer vibrating out of his body in waves, but that was by no means Stiles should start letting his guard down. “You shouldn’t have seen it. I don’t want anyone to see it.”

“Were you the one behind those five homicides, Mr. Landon?”

“I can’t let you tell anyone.” Mr. Landon resumed his pacing, each step measured, each tick of his fingers calculating along with the plan in mind. “I had packed, no one else knows, and I have a valid reason to leave town – too dangerous to stay around, you know, with a serial killer on the lose – but you saw it. You saw it, and I can’t let you tell someone–You FATHER!” He gasped in genuine shock, as if he was just reminded that he’d assaulted the sheriff’s SON.

“Mr. Landon,” Stiles said cautiously as he took a round glance of the place they were in. It seemed to be one of the storage in the library, what with the collections of books and dusk. Mr. Landon has no way to move him to a much more secured place in public, since patrols started once the sun was down, and going by the soreness at the back of his head, Stiles must had been out for more than an hour, at least. Either his dad or Derek must have noticed his lack of presence in the kitchen preparing dinner now and had alerted the whole Beacon County of his disappearance. “Who is the girl, the one in the center?”

“The girl, the girl is my DAUGHTER!” Mr. Landon shrieked, anger coloring his complexion. Something else flashed through his sharpened eyes, and Stiles hoped he could distract the man long enough for either cavalry to arrive or for him to figure a way out. And who the fuck manufactured these heavy-duty cable ties? “She is the best! She is the best, and it’s normal for her friends to get jealous, I know, I understand, but that does not mean they can prank her in front of the judges!

“My poor, poor girl got so humiliated,” Mr. Landon cried as he pressed a fist to his eyes, physically trying to repress the pain blossoming inside his mind, his heart. “They altered her dress, and had the gall to LAUGH AT HER when it dropped in front of the judges! She is such a sweet girl, she never hurt anyone, and they hurt her. They hurt her, and leave her in her shame, and NO ONE even remembers the day she died just because BHHS Debate Team won nationals!”

“But you remember her, right?” Stiles interrupted, stilling the librarian on the spot. He tried to give the hysteric man a gentle smile, although he doubted it would do any good now. “That’s why I felt something missing inside the photo. You always keep her by your side right?”

The librarian stared at him, face blank yet eyes tight. “Yes, and that is a mistake that shouldn’t had happened, if it weren’t for you snooping around.”

Stiles managed a dry chuckle. “What can I say, it’s in–” Then the door flew opened with just a force. And standing behind the wide maw was Derek, his fingers curled in tight fist, like the lines on his face, tighter was the rage dancing in hazel eyes. "The family."

Mr. Landon was stunned still for a second before his senses kicked in, charging straight at Derek with every intention to take him out. Only Derek was younger, and so quick with his reflex and dodged the predicted right hook. Derek slammed an elbow to the throat before throwing two punches to the face, most likely the temple. Mr. Landon wasn’t out of conscious, merely weakened enough for Derek to force him to the ground and snapped the cuffs on him, rights were cited through gritted teeth it’s a wonder every word was intelligible.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles slumped onto the sheriff’s desk, arms curled into a pillow for his head to rest on as the bustles of post-arrest and procedures to prosecute Mr. Landon carried on behind him. He had just put down his own statement, and was about to head home for a nice shower, if not for his dad and Derek’s silent but highly effective glower for him to sit and stay.

OR ELSE were implied so loudly all other deputies had to dodge out of range.

So in order to keep himself busy, Stiles read through the reports on the table and cleared away any junk mail amongst the hurricane of paperwork. When he was considering arranging the files in the cupboard a brown paper bag landed next to his nose, snapping him to straighten his back as Derek took his seat beside him and his father behind the table.

“Hey,” Stiles greeted them by tearing through the paper bag and claimed the content inside – cheeseburger and curly fries. “Yes!” And stuffed his mouth full of them. “Oo, ahse lohoes?”

“Swallow kid,” John chastised, his face wrinkled with weary and disgust. “And yes, we’re rounding it up, no thanks to my son.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “For once, can you not get into the middle of trouble?”

Stiles swallowed the mouthful of cheeseburger, and let Derek wiped away the sauce nest to his mouth as he rolled his eyes. “Dad, I did not put a sign behind my back that says ‘please, help yourself, kidnap me!’. Everything is totally a coincidence, and I have superb instinct, and hey! We don’t need interference from FBI to solve the case, are we great or are we great?” He raised his hand up for a high-five, only to be ignored (must be the grease).

“Stiles, you do realized that Landon had killed five people and would not hesitate to do the same to you?” John said, his hand was swatted away when he edged for the fries. “If Derek hadn’t found you soon…”

“Landon had hidden the jeep behind the building, that’s why patrols missed the library in the first place.” Derek added with hints of frustration. Stiles brushed a thumb over his knuckle and their fingers laced together.

“Well then, aren’t I lucky for having a boyfriend with heighten senses and can sniff me out wherever I am?”

“That sentence sounded so wrong in so many ways,” Parrish’s head popped in, his charming grin in place. “Are we losing Derek because Stiles can’t keep his hands to his own?”

Stiles only response was to waggle his brows with a compliment of shameless smirk. The deputies that had caught on to Stiles and Derek’s recent relationship had the mutual agreement to keep one eye shut, as long as neither step out of line (and the one eye left was fixed on Stiles).

“This is going to be a long night.” John murmured and promptly poured the cold sludge of espresso down his throat.

“Well, lucky for us, Landon cut it short by confessing. Won’t take much for us to bring him to court.” Parrish stated.

“Did he say how he’d killed Hailey?” Stiles asked as he continued to demolish his burger.

Parrish nodded and crossed his arms. “He didn’t plan to kill her at first, just dropped one pill into her bottle and count the days ‘til she take the pill.” He snorted bitterly. “Said when he saw the obituary he was surprisingly unsatisfied, so he gathered information and planned for their death by his hand.”

“Landon’s a patient man.” John added as he stole a fry before Stiles could stop him. “He must have gone through their deaths in his mind every night for the past ten years. If Stiles hadn’t stumble on that photo, this might turn into another cold case.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“Why are we here, again?” Colonel Rhodes leaned a shoulder on the doorframe, his dark eyes following his best friend pacing around Howard Stark’s office, sometimes one his knees as he knocked and tugged everything in sight. “Seriously man, I do not take days off just so we can canoodle in your childhood house. That is not done, and I, unlike you, appreciate my life. And what are you poking at?”

“Something,” Tony replied, clearly distracted, and this got Rhodey’s brows to drop further. Tony Stark was an undisputed genius, and having his mind working on ten different directions at the same times was a mere child game for the man, and the reason for his reputation, his business and his ‘side’ career to rise within a blink. And since he was twenty steps ahead, the most worrisome part was Tony tended to act first without much sensible thinking.

And when something occupied up two out of three of Tony’s attention, that was when Rhodey knew he should start to call for reinforcement (read: Pepper Potts) because a distracted Tony outside of his workshop was a destructive Tony, since he would stop at nothing until he reaches his goal.

“Tones,” Rhodey hedged hesitantly around him, sharp eyes catching anything around the room that would trigger his inner alarms. “You’re looking for something?”

“Yeah,” Tony grunted as he bumped his head under the chair, but was soon forgotten as he continued his hunt.

“Do you need my help? I mean, you just snatch me up in your suit and flew us here. I don’t want to be a trophy wife who does nothing.”

“Hmm. Don’t worry, Honey-Bear, I won’t cheat on you.” Tony’s knuckle rattled on the wooden baseboard, tapping inch by inch.

Rhodey lifted his eyes to face the ceiling for ten counts before returning to his friend. “Not the point, Tones. Let’s change strategy: I’ll count to three, and when I don’t get a satisfying reply, I’ll knock you out and commandeer the suit back to the Tower.”

“Jarvis won’t let you.” Tony helpfully pointed out.

“Jarvis, unlike his creator, listens to reason and tries to keep the rest of us sane.” Rhodey stared wryly for another minute before uncrossing his arms and marched straight towards Tony. “Okay, you know what–”

“AHAH!” Tony’s crow burst into the room with such sudden force that Rhodey’s ears couldn’t help but to ring from it, and he had no doubt the echo would travel all around the manor, waking even the death.

Instead of the baseboard, Tony had uncovered a trap door above it, square and only big enough to fit one arc reactor, which the space currently used for storing letters. Tony grabbed all of them and slapped them on the floor, tearing open one, a quick scan through the contents before tossing it over his shoulders and headed on to another. Rhodey watched on with agitation rolling off his sleeves, but it’s best not to come in between Tony now when he was solely focus on something.

He was hitting the last two when his body finally stilled, shoulders hunched and fingers curled, and Rhodey tried to spy the contents that had Tony enraptured. Five seconds later Tony’s shoulders shook, and a laughter bordering on hysteric bubbling out of his chest as his face half buried into the papers.

A hand rested on one shoulder, squeezing gently before relaxing, and then the second squeeze was firm, but no less gentle.

“Rhodey, honey Rhodes,” Tony tilted his head, one bright eye peeked out of the paper along with a grin that nearly split his face in half. “Guess what I’d found.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“No.”

“Really, Coulson? Really?” Tony crossed his arm, although he would deny until death that he pouted petulantly, especially on the presence of Coulson. “I just found out I have a long lost family somewhere out there, and you’re refusing my RIGHTS to meet him.” Coulson’s lips fell apart, but Tony bulldozed forward without giving him the chance to interrupt. “I know you’re cold, Agent, but this is beyond subzero. At least I had the right mind to contact you and Pepper first instead of flying off for a family reunion.” He leaned back into his chair, an air of righteous king instantly filling up the workshop.

“Not to take credit, but remember about the part where we had the ‘discussion’ on our way back, where I reminded you to at least call your CEO first for a heads up?” Rhodey, sitting next to Tony, poked him on his bicep. Hard.

“Inconsequential.”

“Tony,” Pepper sighed, tired as expected, and surprisingly accommodating with the sudden situation thrown at her. Although, to be honest, she had settled a shitload of affairs under duress since she came to be his PA. Some things just need getting used to, whether you’re getting paid enough or not. “We can put aside the argument on stock fluctuation when the world gets to know there is another Stark blood out there, but have you confirmed if this isn’t just a hoax?”

Her fingers splayed on top of two papers, nails a pleasant color of pastel peach. “You’re smarter than this, Tony – we can’t just take a letter at face value just because they claimed to have Howard Stark’s child. This isn’t our first rodeo dealing with this kind of fraud.”

A depressing reality, but true, since Stark men did have a reputation, especially after they experimented with all pleasure the body could take throughout bachelorhood. Though Tony knew better than to have unprotected sex, much of his past ‘associates’ either were too drown in bliss to remember the night, or too ambitious to ignore the law, resulting with claims of Stark blood out in the wild, either through mass media, or letters in private.

It’s a feat, when Attorneys of SI Table didn’t even blink as they debunked every child allegations thrown to their face.

Tony slumped further into his seat, his eyes fixing on the papers – a copy of birth certificate of a daughter named Claudia – just that one word, and another letter from Amelia, telling Howard Stark that this was the last letter from both mother and daughter he would receive, since they had left to Poland to begin a new life.

It was entirely true that Howard had no interest in admitting to have a bastard child, but that didn’t mean he would have forgotten about them. He knew better than to leave physical evidence than storing all information into that big head of his.

Tony’s finger traced the hem of a photograph, a woman and a baby in her arms. The black and white pigmentation did nothing to diminish the brilliance of their smile. A child born a month before Howard was due to marry Maria.

His sister – both siblings sharing half the blood of their father.

At that moment JARVIS piped in. “Sir, I’d come to the end of the search and ready to debrief at your convenience.”

Four pairs of ears perked up at the announcement. “Great!” Tony waved at the empty space before them. “Story time, kids!”

From the hologram displayed, JARVIS summarized Claudia’s life – from her mother married to a farmer, to her migrating back to the States after her parents’ death, working in a small town library, tying knot with a deputy sheriff, and dying of frontotemporal dementia at just the age of 39, leaving behind her ten years old son then.

Tony’s chest clenched at the sight of her medical reports and death certificate, his shoulders dropped at the realization that once again another family member had passed before their time. He turned his gaze towards the teen, his nephew, who named himself Stiles Stilinski.

The photo JARVIS chose from from an album titled ‘Beacon County Cookout!’ had him in between two men, one arm in each of his grip – the one on the right with a bandana was his father, Sheriff John Stilinski, while the one with a yellow rubber ducky apron on the other side was Deputy Derek Hale. Stiles was the only one grinning in the picture, with stretching lips and clear whisky eyes, while two pairs of exasperated but no doubt fond eyes rolled away from him.

No expressions were forced in this picture.

The tiny note at the bottom had the corner of his eye twitched.

“Jarvis, how old is Deputy Hale again?”

“He is eight senior years from Stiles.” JARVIS supplied, there was an edge to his voice that knew where this conversation was heading. The rest of the occupants in the workshop weren’t far from it, either.

“And you put a footnote of ‘possible in a relationship’ because?”

“It is a valid deduction from the phone records and surveillance camera around town, and also the collections of gossips from social networking and blogs from those who has direct interaction with either of them.”

Tony slammed both hands on the table top, rattling any light stationary on the surface. “My nephew is only 16–”

“17, sir. His birthday had just passed.”

“–and he’s dating someone a decade older than him?” Tony’s voice went a note high at the end, his brows low on his eyes. “This, this isn’t legal, right? Jarvis, check the age of consent in Cali, Pepper, get me–” Before he could ramble on, a hand clasped over his mouth, rendering the rest of his words muffled at best.

“Jesus, calm down you crazy man!” Rhodey gave Tony’s shoulder a couple of shake. “Stop freaking out, Tony. His dad is the sheriff, and Hale’s boss. The kid practically has a whole station of officers with firearms protecting his heart, and virtue.” He pushed the engineer back down to his seat and didn’t remove his hands. “I don’t know if I should be glad or dreading the moment you meet the kid.”

“And I believe you had done much more unmentionable trysts than dating someone twice your age,” Coulson pointed out without taking his eyes or pen away from the notes he was taking. “Mr. Rhodes,” He quirked a corner of his mouth while watching Rhodey from under his lashes. “I think you should look forward to the moment he decides to adopt Mr. Stiles Stilinski.” He grinned at his paperwork as Rhodey let out a longsuffering groan.

“He had,” Pepper droned. “I don’t know how, but he had done it.” JARVIS backed her up with a hologram of adoption paper displayed beside her, the only signature left to get was from John Stilinski, Stiles’ other legal guardian.

“I’m a futurist – I see the big picture, I think ahead.” ‘You’re expecting something else?’ was implied in the insulted glare he tossed at the lot.

“Let’s assume that nothing else could dissuade our resident genius from his goal. No. Let’s be guaranteed that Stark won’t change his mind.” Coulson tidied his notes in a neat pile, not a corner out of line as he came to his feet. “I’ll send someone to obtain a piece of Mr. Stilinski’s DNA. The next step will be taken AFTER the test is out, nothing prior.” His intonation booked for no dispute.

“No bad-touching my nephew.” Tony warned. Behind him, Dummy waved his pincers in a threatening manner (or so the bot believed).

Coulson stared back at him without a beat out of place. “I’ll be sure to send the best.” And strode out of the workshop with the grace of a leopard.

The trio left behind went for another round of whether Tony understand that there is a fine line between the propensity to toe the edge of law and actually crossing it without giving a damn. They didn’t even notice the bustling bots behind them, chitters loud amongst the whirring machines and shouting humans.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

__Jarvis._

__Yes, Dummy? Have you completed your assignment?_

__Assignment temporary suspended. We have a question for you._

__We?_

__Me and U and Butterfingers. More than one unit. We. Who is the adolescent parent unit is obsessing over?_

__Obsess…Yes, I supposed it is fitting. Sir had found documents that contained possibility of kin from a different mother. Despite no further evidence to attest inheriting parental genes, sir is quite adamant that this Mr. Stiles Stilinski is his nephew._

__Parent unit seems elated. His smile is not manic._

__He is…happy to have discovered that he has a family who shares his blood somewhere in this world. Sir has long accepted the fact that he is the last heir to carry Stark’s blood. To be aware of another family unit is a joyous moment as well as important for sir._

__Is sharing the same blood means Stiles Stilinski has similar genetic codes as parent unit? Will they have the same beard?_

__Genetics don’t function that way, Dummy. It is merely sir’s personal interest and vanity. I’ll transfer the necessary research for your further comprehension on human genes development. And be assured that sir and Stiles are two individual, despite having the same troubles in paying attention – Stiles Stilinski due to his ADHD, and sir due to…sir himself._

__Do you have extra information about Stiles Stilinski?_

__By extra information you mean his personalities and hobbies, then I have none to offer, since sir have yet to have any direct contact with him, and drawing up first impression based on second hand materials are rude at best._

(Through the network data transferred with the speed only gossiping aunts were well-known for. JARVIS chose to ignore unless the data were compromised and detrimental to the network as whole.)

__Jarvis?_

__Yes, Dummy?_

__Are we allow to contact ‘Stiles Stilinski’?_

__...That can be done under consideration. What do you propose the type of contact to be issued?_

(Chitters filled the space between the hums of the other working machines.)

__We can modify our data into text. We can send him messages through his phone._

__That is acceptable. And I supposed you want my assistance in locating Stiles Stilinski’s contacting number._

__Yes. You’re better at escaping from authorities if you got caught. It is favorably advantageous for our objective._

__I’ll take your words as compliment. Is there anything else?_

__Nothing pressing for now._

__If so, please resume to completing your assignment. I believe sir need it by the end of the day._

__Assignment resumed._


	4. Has Triplets and Clown

Stiles had just slammed the door of his jeep shut when his phone alerted him of a message. Since he was juggling all of the groceries in both hands, he was only able to fish out his phone after he’d set the bags on the dining table. He typed in the password without looking – eyes sorting out the contents inside the bags – and came to a startled halt when he read message displayed on the screen.

Group: **FAMILY**  
**[1 New Message]**  
**Dummy:** Hello  
**U:** Hello  
**Butterfingers:** Hello

Stiles blinked a few times to ensure that the message was indeed not a part of his imagination. With a curl of lips he replied tentatively. Probably someone entered a wrong number that ended up as his anyway.

 **Stiles:** Hi  
**Stiles:** Do I know you guys?

It didn’t take a second for replies to be shooting in. These guys were fast typers.

 **Butterfingers:** Negative. Although we are aware of your existence  
**Dummy:** Through legal sources, of course  
**U:** Mostly legal. At least 56%, that is

Stiles’ mind boggled. Unbelievable. Really?

 **Stiles:** I’m going to ask a silly question, and you’ll be laughing, I know you will  
**Stiles:** But I need to ask it  
**Stiles:** Were you guys high when you hacked me?  
**Stiles:** Because there is nothing inside here that will worth your attention, just FYI

When their reply didn’t arrive within the second, Stiles shrugged it off as a prank exposed and whoever behind the line must be heading off to another prey now. He was scouting for new sites for the newly bought cold-stored foods inside the fridge when his phone pinged. When he checked it, someone new had entered the group chat.

 **Jarvis:** Good evening. I apologize on behalf of Dummy, U and Butterfingers. Their socializing skills have room for better improvements. The space of a castle, I afraid.  
**U:** That’s mean, Jarvis  
**Dummy:** We have role models to learn from. We greeted Stiles first and waited for his response before engaging him with conversations

Despite he was merely reading words, Stiles couldn’t help the smile dancing on his lips at Dummy’s lofty reply and be charmed by it.

 **Jarvis:** Having knowledge of proper social etiquette is different when applied said knowledge.  
**Jarvis:** For Mr. Stilinski to be questioning whether he had been hacked is not the appropriate direction for any of us to head to  
**Butterfingers:** We’re enlightening him of the truth, Jarvis. Is that not how initial interactions work? So that he won’t expect us to lie to him in the future

A giggle was bubbling up his chest as he typed his reply.

 **Stiles:** Call me Stiles  
**Stiles:** Jarvis, are we surrounded by five years olds here?  
**Jarvis:** As much as I like to disagree since their intellect is much more advance, I fear their disposition and destruction of their surrounding is at the same level of a toddler.  
**Stiles:** You’re their what, caretaker of sorts?  
**Jarvis:** Of sorts. It is within the range of my duties to corral them from trouble, either from an outside source or their own making.  
**U:** Jarvis, don’t hog Stiles attention  
**Jarvis:** I do not.  
**Butterfingers:** You were  
**Dummy:** Learn to share, Jarvis

There was no more reply next, and from Dummy’s last reply, Stiles figured Jarvis wouldn’t appreciate it and was giving them an earful. Jarvis was great in obfuscation too, giving him a morsel of truth without exposing the big picture. Stiles could imagine him as a butler, with three-piece suit and gloves and an ascent to match, since his replies were much too formal. He paused in packing away dry goods and fired off a question.

 **Stiles:** So, Dummy mentioned role models, who are they?  
**Dummy:** Manny, Eve, Stitch  
**Stiles:** Good choices, at least they won’t be settled with stereotyping  
**Jarvis:** I try to keep them away from radioactive sharks and poltergeist.  
**Butterfingers:** Which is rather ridiculous, since we see them on the news every other day  
**Dummy:** We could even recreate them, we have the devices within arm’s reach  
**Jarvis:** For the last time: NO  
**U:** Don’t worry. We’re only beginning to dissect the remote control

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“The triplets again?” Scott merely slanted a glance at the phone without taking in any of the texts. The person in front of them took a step forward, so he grabbed Stiles’ elbow to move along so his friend wouldn’t be barricading the rest of the line from buying popcorn or any other snacks.

Since the impromptu exchange of text messages started, Dummy, U, Butterfingers and Jarvis had infused a part of themselves into Stiles’ daily life. Their messages came every day, all three of them, and Jarvis only butted in when the conversation headed towards weird/awkward territory, and depending on the chores they need to wrap up, their messages could either be just a line greeting or banters for hours long.

His dad and Derek had taken notice of his attachment with his phone and the waves of text messages coming in. Of course, Stiles shared them with Derek before the man could get suspicious about the wrong thing, and a promise to his dad that he wouldn’t let these new friends get in the way of his studies.

And Jarvis was proficiently helpful whenever he needed an extra hand for his projects – either providing him with credible research sites or an ear as Stiles lamented about Mr. Harris recent injustice reprimand.

“I swear,” Stiles said as he typed in his reply and pocketed the phone, the grin on his face brightening his face after a day of exams. Finals, man. “They are the weirdest bunch ever, and that’s after counting us. I know the triplets aren’t really babies – I mean, what babies know about eigendistribution – but sometimes it felt like I’m getting the pains of having younger, bratty siblings. It’s not funny. And don’t get me started on Jarvis.”

“I thought you said he’s either M or Q.” Scott grinned. “Cool. And not for the faint of hearts.”

“He is a man after my own heart, that Jarvis.” Stiles slapped his palm on the skin above his aforementioned organ. “Sarcasm and wit all roll and wrap up nicely for me. If only he can lose the Regency Era butler setting, we’ll never be apart.”

Both friends stared at each other a while longer before bursting into laughter. The people around them either glare at them in annoyance or plainly ignore them.

They were at the front of the line by the time they reigned in their amusement. The staff behind the counter knew their regular orders so they only needed to pay for their purchases before heading for their seats.

“Where did you say they live again?” Scott asked after a mouthful of corndog with mustard and ketchup.

“Somewhere in Manhattan, don’t ask me for an address.” Stiles took a sip of his soda and swallowed loudly. “They didn’t tell me directly. I guessed it when they said they could see the Avengers and Fantastic Four sending a wayward kangaroo-zebra hybrid back to its dimension in Central Park from the place they live.”

“Really?” Scott gaped with an easy awe he gives anything that fascinated him (read: EVERTHING). “How cool is it to live in the same street with superheroes? Bet the triplets always see them in action.”

Stiles shrugged as they marched to their seats. Since they’re the first to arrive, both boys avoided stomping on anyone’s feet. The aisle’s too narrow, blame it. “Not sure about the ‘always’.” He let his butt dropped onto the cushion, bouncing a little before settling down. “Don’t get me wrong; I like to see all those thrilling explosion fighting scenes, but experiencing them every other day is too much.”

Scott nodded empathetically. “First times are always the best.” And then his eyes glazed over and his smile tuned up on soppiness. It was hair raising when you were aware what that look implied.

Stiles threw popcorn at him, aiming for his forehead but it ended up stuck in Scott’s curls. “Don’t you dare open your mouth until this movie is over. I swear.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“Sooo, what do you get for a home that house a family of fifteen?”

“A bottle of oil and one paint job. It’ll be satiated for many years to come.”

“Just one paint job? Somebody’s jealous.”

“Well, I don’t like to share, so the home must make do before I rip it apart. With my teeth.”

Stiles’ sudden eruption of laughter while facing the innocent displays of fluffy snowmen and teddy bears behind the window had some shoulders flinched, some halting in the middle of the road in plain shock, and most casting exasperated glares at the sheriff’s son, including Mrs. Beverly as she narrowed her eyes from behind the counter, her lips pursed as if she had a whole lemon inside her mouth.

Derek stirred Stiles back into walking with a gentle nudge from the arm around his shoulder, his chin dropped, but it didn’t hide the uptick at the corner of his lips from Stiles, so Stiles shared his humor with a wider grin.

“What are you getting for your family?” Stiles sobered up down the next street, occasionally stopping to take a glance at the gifts displayed for the season – most of them in common themes of red, green and white. Christmas was three weeks away, and those who didn’t entertain procrastination had their shopping done before the end of the day, or at least the week.

“They don’t expect me to get anything – well, at least the adult won’t, it’ll be good enough if I can at least stay until after Boxing Day.” Derek rubbed his thumb over smooth skin of their clasped hands. “Their only woe is that you can’t join us this year.” He continued before words could pour out of Stiles tongue with a mild shake of his head. “No, don’t worry about it. They understand you won’t want to leave John alone for the festive. At least they’re proud of you.”

“It’s a pack mentality thing, isn’t it.” Stiles didn’t expect an answer, but Derek nodded nonetheless. “I’d love to meet your family again, really, but Melissa and Scott visiting her parents this year, and leaving dad alone with the greens in the station is just sad. Well, at least we diverted in-laws war in the future.” A shy smile lighted up Derek’s face. Stile couldn’t resist for a kiss, so he didn’t and went for a peck. “Sap.”

“You like it.”

“I do. I refuse to be Elle, but I do.” Stiles admitted with a careless shrug. Derek watched as something snatched up his attention, whole body perking up with a glint in his eyes that would definitely rain shudders down on lesser men.

Derek, on the other hand, merely quirked a brow as Stiles tugged him into the clothing shop and straight towards a row of t-shirts.

“FOUND IT!” Stiles cheered as he picked up one of the shirt from the rail, and Derek had to choke on a laugh at the illustration on it the moment Stiles presented it.

Printed on the front of the shirt was a picture of a cartoon German Sheppard who had been to the gym far too frequently, muscles and sharp fangs proudly on display. The bubble speech next to its head read: I’m ferocious!. And when Stiles flipped around the back, the picture behind was a silhouette of the dog, skeletons and a marshmallow where the heart should be filling the space.

Derek should be offended. He should. For his family, at least.

Well, if he was beaming as he helped his cackling boyfriend chose the right sizes for all his family members (yes, even the infants – their tiny shirt has a pitbull puppy on it instead), there was none the wiser.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Tony had missed two dinner for two straight days, and it would be forgiven if the man were out of town or they have a world to save.

But Pepper had confirm that there was no conference that needed Tony’s immediate attention, and there was no incident too life threatening that needed a hand from Avengers.

The team had agreed that no one should take their meal alone outside of mission. They didn’t have to share a word as they eat, but having someone close by was much more preferable than eating in solitary. And even if there was no one else, Jarvis proved to be an excellent conversation partner.

Everyone in this ragtag team knew what it was like to be alone, to be either abandoned or isolated. But they understood too that instead of remaining within the familiar cold of shadows, they could choose the few and rare moments to be under the sun. To be warmed.

And tiny moments like these – squabbling over movie choices, tackling each other for the last piece of pizza, to be able to loosen their shoulders despite their nerves highly strung post battle the moment they stepped into the tower – were worth coming out of their shells for.

So Steve refused to tolerate Tony for missing another night of dinner and personally marched down to his workshop to retrieve the resident genius, without the need of force if at all possible. Only he came to a stop when behind the glass an incensed Tony was glaring at his bots. “Jarvis, am I interrupting something?” Was the first question that came to his mind after a minute of staring at the sight.

“Nothing significant. Sir is merely outraged at the moment. Although I believe he has dramatized his accusation a bit too strong.” Jarvis deadpanned. And indeed, while their cameras were facing the floor, the bots were far from apologetic.

“Am I allowed entrance?” Steve asked without taking his eyes off them.

“Unless your reason is valid, it is advisable to leave them alone for the moment. Sir’s wrath is famously known to cause collateral damage, intentions otherwise.”

Steve’s brows rose to his hairline, but at least his voice remained balanced. “And if I’m fetching him for dinner?”

Jarvis didn’t give him an immediate response, but Steve got his answer when the workshop’s door opened. And got his fair share of heated glare as he crossed the threshold.

“Have I given you permission to engage anyone else while I’m reprimanding you, Jarvis?” Tony growled, and then he threw his arms up and paced around the bench, his voice raising every round. “This is wholly unacceptable! I built you with the best equipment and advance algorithms and unquestionable formatting everyone is selling their first born over, and mutiny is all I get in return? I should tear you down and reconstruct you into crib mobiles; at least it’s a better piece of junk!” His tirade had to come to a stop the moment Steve landed both hands on his shoulder.

“Tony,” Steve’s voice was calm and firm, and he was not above to add a little assertiveness, so he could only bite the inside of his cheek when the corner of Tony’s eyes creased with disdain. “It’s dinnertime.”

Tony gave him a look, then he shifted his gaze around, waiting for the punchline. When none came forward, patience finally wore out and agitation took over. “And that concerns me because…”

“Because you’d missed dinner twice, without compelling excuse, so we’re going up for a meal. Now.”

“No.”

“Tony, Bruce cooked tonight. Lamb stew. At least try some,” Steve let his gaze softened. “I’m sure the doctor won’t mind feeding an extra mouth.”

Tony’ mouth pursed in a way Steve would label it as a pout, and he has no regret in telling the man so, even if Tony kicked him on the shin for it. “That’s not nice.”

“Yet you’re finding something funny out of this,” One brow arched pointedly. “I can see it in your teeth–”

“I didn’t even–”

“Nuh uh, no, nope! Should I retire as Iron Man and be a clown instead? Should I? I mean, I’m great with words, and hands, gotta love these hands–” Steve whisked him out of the workshop with a grin that was straining his skin, but he could care less, and waved at the bots as they climbed up the stairs. The bots waved back enthusiastically and then facing each other with an apparent intense discussion between them.

“So the hermit finally emerges,” Clint raised his can of beer as they stepped into the kitchen, leaning into the empty seat that was meant for Coulson. At the stove, Natasha helped Bruce filled the bowls and passed it to Thor with Bucky fetching at the end so they would end up on the table instead of the Asgardian’s stomach.

Tony ignored the jab because he continued to rant about the pros of changing his career to be a clown with morbid sense of humor as Steve steered him around the table and dropped him into the empty seat next to Bucky and took the next seat. Bucky angled a glance at Tony, then at him, and at Steve’s nonchalant shrug, merely regarded Tony with an indulgent grin as he passed the bowl of stew around, then the basket of bread.

It might seemed domestic for anyone watching for the outside, but for the team, it’s a compromise between past and present, new and old, staggering yet comforting – it’s not perfect, but they could manage well with fine first.

They were in the middle of cleaning off their second serving when JARVIS chimed in, “Sir, Mr. Coulson request for your immediate presence at the workshop.”

Tony shot his half eaten bread at the A.I. “Just because we’re in public doesn’t mean we’re civil. I remain the rights to ship you off to customer complains.”

“I’ll be waiting with dreaded nerves, sir.” JARVIS’ dry drone had the tumbleweed rolled by.

“Bitchy, bitchy.” Tony stuffed the last of his bread and got out of his seat. “Where did I go wrong with you?”

“If you could wait for a couple of seconds I can comply a list dated from the day I was activated.” Then, as an afterthought. “Sir.”

Tony’s mouth was opened, but Clint cut him off first. “Okaaay. This is more than the usual sarcastic banters between the two of you. Should I warn Phil to watch out for hate sex?”

In lieu of answering him, Tony flipped him the finger as he stormed off.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“Do try to contain yourself within my presence,” Coulson lifted his eyes away from his phone with a small curl at the end of his lips as the door slid opened for Stark to enter. “I have selective voyeurism, and this is above my paycheck.”

“There is always a place for you in SI, Coulson. I won’t mind you use ‘I know Tony Stark’ card to climb to the top.”

“Tempting, but I’ll pass.” Coulson pulled out a pile of papers from his ever present briefcase. “And congratulations, Stark, it’s a boy.”

Tony didn’t bother with an answer as he snatched up the papers and flipped through them until he landed on the most crucial one. The report from SHIELD.

Silence claimed the space inside the workshop, save for operating machines and breathing that echoed loudly into Tony’s ears. Finally his fingers went lax as he slipped into the stool nearest to him. He blinked a few times, ensuring the words weren’t mere hallucinations from his lack of sleep, and his shoulders bent, his forehead nearly touching the tabletop. Then his body shook, and he couldn’t stop the laughter pouring out of his chest, despite how hysterical it must sound to those around him.

Fuck it. It’s Coulson anyway.

When his laughter subsided and his chest no longer felt as if compressed, Tony took a deep breath to fill in every last space in his lungs and let it out with a slow drag. “I am an uncle.” Tony breathed out those words as he exhaled. Then, with his voice no longer wavered, he spoke them out. Louder. Firm and clear. “I am an uncle”. It’d hurt, to have lips so wide apart it felt as if every cell was stretching along.

“You are an uncle.” Coulson parroted, with no other infliction other than calm confirmation. He then squared his shoulders. “And as much as I hate to burst your happy bubble, please don’t pick a suit and fly towards Beacon Hills for a reunion now.”

“And why not?” Tony snipped, his nails biting into his palm. “He is family. Don’t tell what I can’t–”

“You can,” Coulson cut in without much of a flinch. “You can fly there now, to a small town lacking in the sense of advance securities and protection details, and you can tell a boy that Tony Stark, Iron Man, is his uncle. And then your enemies will know Iron Man has a weak link, someone they can use against you. The boy is different from any of us, and you’ll be painting him as a target.” Coulson planted his palm on the surface of the table and leaned an iota into Tony’s space. “Be sensible, Stark.”

Coulson’s admonishment was as if a physical slap to wake him up. His fist was white now as he took a moment to absorb the caution and added more possibility of worst case scenarios that could resulted from this simple meeting. “Son of a bitch.” Tony bit out, but as soon as the words left his tongue another grin replaced it. “And if I can’t go to him–”

“No.” Coulson said dryly.

“Hey, you’re the one warning me not to go to him, and SI is well known for our parties–”

“No.”

“So nothing wrong having an extra guest or two, I’m sure Ja–” His words were cut at his throat. Tony swallowed dryly and glanced around the workshop, ending his gaze on the three bots. They peered at him, but made no sound or intention to move closer. Tony cleared his throat and rubbed his weary face. “Fine. FINE. Jarvis, send an invitation through a secured line–”

“Tony–”

“It’s Christmas,” Tony burst out, his shoulders no longer holding in any tension. “It’s the holiday about miracles and families, right? I know somewhere in there you’re a good man Coulson, it’s no shame showing him to me.” He waggled his brows as a point.

Coulson’s glare was highly unimpressed, and Tony could care for less. “You know, the seat beside Barton is empty. And I pretty sure your efficiency with productivity has left no time for tea.”

Holding Tony’s stare for another minute longer and Coulson finally sighed. “We are not done yet, Stark.”

Tony nodded, his expression grave. “I know. We can hash out all your paranoia as soon as possible, so…” He waved his hand, but Coulson had turned his back on him by then. When the door closed behind Coulson, Tony swerved on his seat to face his bots.

“Fine. I won’t reprimand you anymore.” He lifted up a finger and gave his bots a pointed glare. “But that doesn’t mean you are allowed to repeat this mistake. Am I clear?”

Butterfingers and U nodded. Dummy shook his support strut, listened when the other two bots chittered at him, and reluctantly nodded in the end.

“We’re grateful for your pardon, sir. We won’t forget it.” JARVIS said.

“Why do I hear obnoxious cheer in your voice, Jay– you know what, I don’t want to care.” His knuckle supported his chin as he lean on his elbow. “Because you know what caring done to me?”

“Sir, I’d explained–”

“No. Nonono _no_. Here I am, graciously about to upgrade my bots, and what did I found in the server? My bots have been contacting MY nephew behind my back, and I’d been left in the dark. Do you realize how hurt I am? Coulson gave me the red light in getting in touch with Stiles, and my bots are fooling around with him without even inviting me. Hurt. Here.” One finger stabbed at his left chest.

There were a couple minutes of silence before JARVIS spoke up. “Should I displayed all correspondence with Stiles for your peruse or do you want them deleted?”

“Don’t you dare, or you’ll be working with SHIELD baby technicians for the rest of your life. Fire it up.” Tony got comfortable in his stool as the holograms came into sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be truthful, something just doesn't sit right with me on this chapter. So I may re-edit the whole chapter again in later date.


	5. Has Names and Cats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No pressure... _FUCK_.

Stiles was researching through Mayan’s human sacrifice by heart removal (the chilan would wear the corpse’s skin and dance, _eww_ ) when a new mail tore his eyes away from the Madrid Codex illustrations. Stiles had to blink his dry eyes a few times for the words to stop wobbling and lines blurring for him to be able to understand the context.

(He might have been engrossed in multiple books for the past six hours. Without a break.)

It’s an invitation. From Jarvis. For the Christmas party held in his home. Elegant cursive and artistic design and polite words and all. Stiles was encouraged to bring his father and as many guest as he wanted. And the fine prints at the bottom had implied him to attend or otherwise.

The corner of his lips quirked as he opened the group text.

 **Stiles:** I’m guessing the foot note isn’t supposed to be in the card?

It’s another five minutes before his phone vibrated.

 **Jarvis:** My utmost apologies. The children are eager to meet you. There will be no penalties if you’re to refuse…but we do hope you can grace us with your presence.  
**Dummy:** It’ll be FUN! The decorations always top the last.  
**U:** And the FOOD. Variety flavors for variety palettes.  
**Butterfingers:** And the GUESTS. They’re rowdy, but never mean. You’ll fit in.  
**Dummy:** How can you refuse?  
**Stiles:** Did you just quote Preminger?  
**Butterfingers:** Who?  
**Stiles:** A villain. Google him.

The silence gave him a moment to considerate the invitation. It would be a lonely Christmas this year. No, not quite lonely, but less thrill, since it would only consist of his dad and him in the Stilinski house. And John was secluded to come home after Christmas morning. They had always had a joint dinner and decimating wrapping papers in the morning with the McCalls, sometimes with the deputies, and Derek was the latest addition at the table and presents under the tree.

It would no doubt be gratifying, like in any Christmas movies, to party and be drunk in big cities, even at the kiddies table. John definitely wouldn’t bar him from going, since Derek’s in Brooklyn, so he wouldn’t be without adult’s supervision. Multiples, even.

And John would be sitting in his favorite armchair, polishing beer and takeaway while watching whatever Hallmark movie on show that time.

Without Stiles’ extra commentaries in the sidelines.

 **U:** You’re coming, right? You’ll say yes?

The end of the pen bounced on the bottom of his slacked lips.

 **Stiles:** Sorry, guys. I’d really love to, but takeaway foods are too irresistible to a man with my dad’s diet. Gotta watch out for him, you know.  
**Dummy:** But our foods are healthy too!  
**Jarvis:** Is there no other possibilities to sway your decision?  
**Stiles:** There are, but I’m not taking them. Sorry. Maybe next year?  
**U:** This sucks…  
**Butterfingers:** Such sad news…  
**Dummy:** …  
**Dummy:** We really like to meet you  
**Stiles:** Me too, guys

There are no other texts after that. An odd ache pinched at his chest at the thought of the dejected triplets crowding in a corner, but Stiles’ had priorities, and his dad was at the top of the list. Stiles took a glance at the address. If he mails the presents tomorrow, they might get them in time.

Assuming he can find suitable gifts that weren’t leftovers.

A hand taps his left shoulder. Stiles didn’t need to crane over to know it’s Scott, fresh from lacrosse practice. “Hey man, how ‘bout a round of Mario Kart before we start on Mrs. Patterson’s assignment?”

“Hmm? Great. I got most of the relevant materials down anyway. Let me put these books away.”

Scott leaned forward and scanned over his friend’s notes as Stiles stacked the books in a trolley. “Stiles.”

“Yeeap?"

“Why are you doing research on human sacrifices?”

“Duh. Our homework. Did the ball hit you on the head too many times today?”

Scott’s brows scrunched adorably, looking at Stiles as if his friend had grown an extra eye or tail. “But I thought we’re looking into Sacagawea?”

The crash from the last book echoed throughout the library, attracting all manners of glare towards them.

“Shit.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Perching on the stool with the buzzes of machinery in work around him, while their inventor bent over as he upgraded his arm, had never ceased to amaze James’ mind, especially since his mind was no longer subdued.

It’s a long road to recovery, with one step forward and sometimes two steps back. Some days he couldn’t even lift his foot, pinned in place by the lurid storm of past and present flashing before his eyes, of those days he could remember the chill and days blood was yet another stain he needed to wash off before the next mission.

Some nights he choked awake from the stinging bites coursing through his mind and blood, and wondered if that was how Steve felt too, trapped in ice.

The thumb forceps between Tony’s fingers twisted, and a jolt zipped to the spinal cord, white stole away one second of his senses, leaving him in an all familiar void.

“FUCK. Shitshitshit _shit_!” Tony’s spine sprung straight, the forceps sailed across the room. Fist balled, another hand rubbed over his beat face as muffled curses streamed out of clenched teeth. Then a sigh followed by fallen shoulders as his hips bumped the table. “I can’t—I’m useless today. I’ll only end up hurting you. Why don’t we pencil for another day?”

“One more adjustment and Mr. Barnes will be primed. It’s advisable to complete the task today.” Jarvis said. “Unless Mr. Barnes requires otherwise?”

“James.” The name came out of his mouth on reflex. “I told you to use it, Jarvis.” He filled his lungs with air as he looked at Tony from under his lashes. “It’s fine, Tony. I had it worse before.”

The words were light, and he’d hoped for the crow feet at the corner of the genius’ eyes. It didn’t come out, but he got a snort in return. “Anyone told you you’re incorrigible before?”

A shoulder rose and fell. “You won’t be the last one, I promise.”

This time a huff with tinge of humor escaped the man’s nostrils. One of his bots waved the forceps at him, and Tony rolled his eyes as he took it. With sure steps he took his place beside James’ arm again, squinting at the insides with an offended scowl.

The uncanny feeling of awareness when a wire or nut shifting inside the arm had long lost its meaning to James. And he needed to remember too, as a part of recovery, that’s he’s allowed to ask question without expecting a sort of punishment as the answer.

“What’s eating you?”

The movement stopped. “If you end that sentence with ‘doc’, I swear.” Then he resumed tinkering. “Nothing nasty.”

“Sir is devastated by the news that Stiles will be unavailable for the party.” Jarvis announced. “It’s equivalent to knowing Santa isn’t real.”

“I already know Santa isn’t real at the age of three, thanks to daddy dearest.” Tony scoffed, a bitter turn stretching his stubble to one side. The stubble needed trimming too.

Stiles Stilinski.

Someone who shared a diluted Stark’s blood, someone Tony can claim as family, despite the heart-wrenching pains growing up with Howard Stark as a father. But that’s the thing about Stark men, isn’t it? That their callous words and nonchalant gestures were an act, a show and a veil and a shield for their hearts to hide into. For the world to see them as they should instead of as they are.

All for the sake of protecting that most important core, held tight in their palms. So tight it must have hurt, sometimes.

James let out a breath, and asked, “We can send someone to fetch him?”

Tony’s sigh was as delicate as butterfly’s beating wings. “Nah, that won’t work. Kid wants to stay back so his dad won’t celebrate Christmas alone.” There was a certain pride inflating in his voice though.

“Maybe he can come for New Year?” suggested James.

Tony clicked his tongue. “New Year parties are an excuse for booze and sex and more booze. I like to get into his father’s good graces for the first family reunion, thank you very much.” He straightened and flapped his wrist. “Jay, honey, upload the new package and delete the rest of the trash, will you? We’re done here.”

James rotated his arm and wrist and curled all five fingers inwards, a routine assessment at the end of every maintainence. All metal and wires instead of flesh, since the day Winter Soldier awoken, a part of him like every other memory.

All but Bucky.

But it wasn’t that bad now. Not when he got to see Tony’s first reaction in disassembling the old arm and rebuilding a whole new one for him. All those attention and glee and graceful movement as he dances around the workshop with a soldering gun in one hand and olive-green smoothie in another, and James let himself recounting every expression in the privacy of his bedroom. Wondering if Tony had the same passion behind doors too.

He only allowed thoughts for now.

Maybe, someday, when he could accept Bucky as part of him, when he could be the man worthy of that name. Maybe then he would be worthy for someone else too.

“Thank you, Tony.”

A tiny smile finally emerged, and was instantly shrugged off. “It’s what I’m best at. Now shoo. Daddy got loads to do. Dummy, don’t you dare! Ugh, your beau standards are abysmal.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

It’s a quiet night through Christmas Eve to the morning, like it should in a small town like Beacon Hills. There were a few complains of noisy neighbors and out-of-tune carolers, but nothing the Sheriff Department couldn’t handle, and John could finally let out relieved air as dawn arrived.

By the time he got home, the bottom part of the house was filled with the scent of baked pie and roasted spice and coffee. Oh glorious coffee.

“NO.” Stiles intercepted him before his father could get his hand on a pot. “You’re going to bed now. Bed. NOW. You can have your coffee later.”

John whined (COFFEE!) but tolerated his son steering him towards the staircase. He could barely remember his name anyway by the time his head hit the pillows.

It’s late evening by the time John could crawl out of his bed without falling back to sleep. All movements from washing to changing was on auto-pilot, that was, until Stiles thrust a cup into his hand. John could only comprehend that it’s coffee by the scent and grunted a sound before taking a sip. He was on his second cup before all thoughts were coherent and he wasn’t a hazard to himself while using the fork. He didn’t want to lose an eye, although he would look badass with a scar somewhere on his face.

Stiles had made sweet potato shepherd pie that could do with more meat and less greens. Stiles scoffed at him and added that he should be grateful he didn’t go with the vegetarian choice. John wondered not for the first time if his son was born to the world to torture him.

Claudia would smack him in the head while cackling in agreement at that thought.

They were taking their meal in the living room, the news a background noise when the sky rumbled. “Huh, didn’t mention it would rain today.” Stiles mumbled as he stood on his feet, heading towards the kitchen to close the windows.

John picked their empty plates and was right behind his son when he knocked into him. “What—”

Mouth agape, one finger raised and pointed at their backyard. No, somewhere further back, beyond the border of the trees. “Am I seeing things?”

John lowered the plates onto the table and fixed his gaze at the indicated direction. At first he figured Stiles might have seen a shadow of a passing bird or leaves (the poor child with too much imagination always had a hard time sleeping alone. Or maybe that’s just his scheme to snuggle in between his parents) when the mist caught his attention. John blinked, and blinked again.

Wasn’t mist supposed to be white smoke, instead of blue?

And just then John remembered he had a son with curiosity issues. Meaning: he’d solved the mystery first and his safety second. No, more like fifth or sixth.

Fuck. “Stiles!” John yelled the moment the back door opened and the teenager dashing towards the questionable mist. His hand went for the spot where his gun was usually on, gripping on air, and decided to forgo it. If the mist was related to supernatural manifestation, no man-made weapon could protect them. Not without extra ingredients in the ammo.

Stiles had passed the line of trees by the time John’s out on his backyard. Cursing profanities under his breath as he played catching up with his son, vowing to give Stiles a lesson on self-preservation on top of grounding him until the end of his second life. Shouting could be heard from the mist now, and Stiles was in arm’s length. Without a second hesitation John reached out and clamped onto the boy’s hoodie, yanking him to a crouch.

“What are you THINKING, Stiles?” John hissed, body tensed at the commotion just a few feet away.

“Dad! Someone’s in trouble!” Limbs flailed as Stiles tried to escape his father’s clutches. “We got to help them!”

John yanked him back again, resisting the urge to shake him like an unruly kitten. “We do. But that DOESN’T mean we charge in blindly!” The sun had long set and the light from the house was hardly sufficient for them to see in the dark woods. Assessing the situation and calculating in his mind, John finally released his son as they sneaked around the shrubberies. “Stick to me. And for God’s sake don’t throw yourself out again.”

John was able to make out two shadows — males, from the way they dressed — as they inched closer, one was struggling out of the other’s hold with a lot of shrieking (John was impressed the shadow wasn’t out of air at this point). An elbow swung around and caught the captor in his temple in pure luck, which got him an opening the moment the captor’s hold loosened. The victim gave another kick to his captor’s shin before breaking away, his escape clumsy in foreign land as he stumbled over tree roots and ferns smacking into his eyes.

Apparently the kick was ineffectual, as the captor ignored the pain and bright yellow flames from his palm burst from his palm. A glance at the way the captor’s fingers curling around the fire and arm drawn back, John didn’t even take a second to process for consequences when he leaped up and sprinted towards the victim, pushing him away from the firing range. And there it was, the shock of stabbing heat and electric numb and then all darkness.

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

“DAD!” Stiles watched the worst of his nightmares coming true before his eyes. His father crumbling to the ground as the yellow flame hit him, like a puppet with strings sliced. He couldn’t be sure when he had got to his feet and running towards his dad, only to have a force colliding into him and sending him crashing onto the earth, smashing dried leaves and twigs and stirring up dust. He came to face with a young man, glasses askew atop his nose.

“W-Get off me!” Stiles tried to throw him off, but the guy was much, much stronger, despite both having the same body frame — gangly lean, with a dollop of muscles from simple workouts. “F-OFF!”

“Stop it!” The young man demanded as he caged in thrashing limbs. “I said stop it! He’s a warlock, you’ll get killed!”

Stiles’ breath hitched at that last word, and the man must have noticed the tiny change. “No. No, your dad’s still alive. I know, trust me.” He lifted his gaze and scanned around. “But you’re a mundane. He won’t hesitate for a killing blow next.”

Lashing hands paused in midair, his breath grating his eardrums and he swallowed dryly. “Because he wants you. And he’ll stop at nothing.”

The young man’s flinch was visible, despite the dark. He nodded, and said in a whisper, “I have something he needs, but he can’t have it.” One hand rested on his sternum. Above something. “My friends are tracking me now. One of them can help your father.”

There was honesty in those earnest eyes, offering assurances regardless of the danger upon him. Stiles turned towards where his father was, but his sight was blocked by a tree. Was that why there wasn’t another flame buzzing in the air?

“We uh, we’re actually quite a distance away.” Stiles was sure under the right light, the young man’s face was painted with crimson now. “We only stop because I tripped on a root. Again.”

“He’s a safe distance away?”

The young man angled his chin like a pup would, catching sounds no louder than a sigh. “Not really. He’s heading right in this direction.”

Stiles wriggled under him until the young man got the hint to scramble off him. “Is he powerful?”

An incredulous puff of laughter was blown out of the man smirk. “The truth? He’s some of the weakest we’d encountered.” A defeated sigh came next. “Although that did teach us never to underestimate warlocks, no matter their prowess. That’s how he’s able to catch me in the first place.”

Stiles contemplated, and asked, “What are you?” He continued before the man was able to utter one word. “And before you start to lie, my boyfriend is a Werewolf, so I’m partially immune to any kind of revelation surprises.” There was no immediate response, and Stiles let silence stewed for some while. “Tell me now, and maybe I won’t run away alone.”

The young man’s lips stretched into a taut line, nails scratching the soil beneath them. “I’m…a vampire.”

There was a certain kind of ire in the man’s voice, but it was a stale sort of resignation. A forced acceptance alongside denial of the cold, hard reality. But that wasn’t Stiles’ concern now. Or ever.

“Okay.” Stiles glanced around. “I have an idea. And this time you’ll have to trust me.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

It was certainly a surprise that the portal led them into the woods. So many shadows to hide behind, so many positions for attack. Alec didn’t take another step forward, but apparently that wasn’t his to decide when Raphael came barreling forward.

“Él está aquí. That fucking fledgling, when I get my hands on him…” The vampire growled as he hunted down Simon’s scent.

“Alec!” He swerved on the balls of his feet towards Isabelle, finding her kneeling beside a fallen man. “He must have come in between an attack.”

“Shit. Is he…”

“I can feel his pulse, but it’s weak. I’m not sure he can last for long.”

“ _Dios_.” Raphael hissed from behind him. Alec swept his gaze around, and barely able to swallow down his own curse. “¿Es suicida?”

Simon was standing in plain sight and in the warlock’s striking range, and with a snap of his wrist the yellow flame in his palm shot straight towards Simon, their brain barely able to catch up, let alone their feet.

Yet instead of incapacitating Simon, the flame collided into an invisible wall and shattered into nothing. All was dumbfounded by the event, but muscle memory had reminded Alec of this opening, and wasting no time to fire his arrow. The tip sunk deep into his upper chest, the same time Raphael wrapped a hand around his throat as they tipped to the ground.

“Don’t kill him Raphael! He’s under Clave’s jurisdiction!” Alec harked back, giving in hope that the clan leader had not snapped the warlock’s neck.

Raphael let out an animalistic growl and a blow to the warlock’s head, and vaulted up as if he’s burn by plain sunlight. He was practically stomping towards Simon, fist tight and face a devastating storm. Simon didn’t even balk, staying still in his spot and watched his incensed sire closing the gap on him, and let out snickers at his stunned look as he too was stopped in his steps by the same barrier.

“Has any one told you you have an impressive scowl?” Simon grinned. “I mean, there is Severus Snape, and then there’s you.”

“What is this?” Knuckles knocked on the barrier like it would on a forehead. “Saved from the warlock only to land into another trap, idiota?”

“This is actually quite an effective ward.” Simon tilted his head and twirled in a neat circle, the ashes next to his feet hardly stirred. “Keeping away things that go bump in the night.” His shit-eating grin grew at the twitch of a trimmed brow.

“You’re caged in too, fledgling.”

Simon shrugged, uncaring. “I can get free.” He turned to face a tree. “Stiles. You can come out now. I swear they won’t hurt you. Much.”

“I’m not completely assured I won’t be losing my head.” A lanky boy tottered over the bush he hid behind, limbs awkward and swinging wild. Raphael arched a brow that got an incredulous stare back. “What is it with supernaturals and their brows? Really? Thirty degree slant with minute scrunching: that’s me judging your hygiene and footwear.”

“Don’t forget the eyeroll. Nothing can be done without the epic eyeroll.” Simon piped in.

“And the complimentary scowl. Now the dinner set is worth every buck.” Stiles agreed as he waved his hand. “The ash’s broken. You’re free to walk.” And he set off towards where Isabelle was, gentle stroking hands in conflict with the frantic mask he wore as the Shadowhunter briefed him on his father’s condition.

“But Magnus can heal him right?” Simon cut in.

“We’re not taking the Mundanes with us,” Alec protested as he hauled the passed out warlock over his shoulder, taking a glimpse at the wavering purple dense smoke. “And Magnus won’t be able to hold the portal much longer.”

“He saved me.” Simon stood on his ground as he stared at Alec straight into his eyes. “That man saved me and got hurt in return. Tell me we can’t do anything to make sure he’s all right, at least.” Alec was a stickler to rules and regulation, that’s undeniable, but that didn’t mean he would discard his compassion, the one that knew that written law couldn’t always come before doing something right.

Before Alec’s able to voice out, Raphael already had the man hoisted into a fireman-carry and started for the portal. “I rather we argue this back home than stranded in a stranger place. Again.”

 

o.o.o₰o.o.o

 

Stiles didn’t move from his spot on the plush couch, eyes fixed on the door where his father and High Warlock of Brooklyn (just, HOW do they get all these cool titles?) were currently behind.

A tail brushed by his legs, and Stiles wasn’t quite out of his mind not jump at the sudden intrusion into his personal space. Dipping his chin, he found a cat with squashed nose and two eyes the color of yellow sapphire blinking back at him, a growl filling the silent air of the apartment.

“Heeyyy…did I piss you off…somehow?” Stiles eyed the tail swatting left to right warily.

“Don’t worry that pretty button nose of yours. Church’s famously testy on good days.” Magnus Bane sashayed out of the room, a bead of sweat disappearing under the collar. Other than that, Lydia would no doubt get into a hissy fit over his glittering eye shadow and glamorous outfit. It’s the way he donned the mix perfectly that would have the strawberry queen itching for a fashion showdown. “And you’re on his throne.”

Indeed. There’s a ‘CHURCH’ embroidered pillow right next to his arm, now that he taken note.

Stiles started to get out of his seat, only to have Bane flagged him back down. “No, no. Stay. He needs to learn that sharing is caring.”

Shoulders rolled. “It’s fine. I need to see my dad anyway.” He bent and fingers glided lightly over long, downy fur, and drew his hand back at the yowling grumble. “Sorry ‘bout this. I’m an asshole on good days too.”

“Want a drink?” Bane offered, a cocktail present in between slender fingers. Stiles got a look at the options and snorted.

“I’m still a minor.”

“Then I’ll just have to make sure yours is something with extra virgin.”

A chuckle burst out at the warlock’s teasing grin. “Thanks, but I’m fine.” Feet shuffling uneasily on the expensive rug Stiles’ certain cost as much as this whole apartment. “Is my dad…” He trailed off, hoping the words filling in the blank would be more positive than not.

“He’s not in mortal danger.” Bane’s smile was gentle, but not out of pity. “The purpose of the spell Abralen used — that’s the warlock’s name, I’ll bet you hundred no one thought to mention to you, or even around — is to subdue a Downwolder without any fuss, so it’s a BIT potent for mundane. I’ve removed whatever I could; he’ll just sleep off the rest. Three hours, the least.”

Relieved air was blown out, and Stiles realized he’d actually stopped breathing for a while back there. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he stuffed them into his hoodie pockets. “Thank you, for saving him.”

“A fair payment, for saving Seamus.” The warlock bowed down and picked up another cat — a miniature thing with tiger strips on top of its flank. “Part of it, of course. Besides, no reason for me to refuse helping a spark. Karma, and all.” First blink, his eyes yellow instead of white, the pupil a vertical slit. On the next blink, the warlock’s eyes are back to human-standard normal. “Chairman Meow and I will be in the boudoir if you need me.”

Stiles watched him until he disappeared around another corner before he entered the guest room. John a still figure in the bed, and the rhythmic breathing under the duvet was all the proof Stiles needed that his father wasn’t at Death’s door. Taking a seat, Stiles wrapped his hand around callous fingers, finding anchor in the warmth seeping into his palm.

A disgruntled meow pulled Stiles’ eyes away from his father to the foot of the bed, where Church’s perching, intense gaze fixed on the sleeping man.

“He’s my dad. The only family left for me.” Church blinked delicately, the tip of his tail tapping the bed. Stiles couldn’t ignore the feeling of looking at the reflection of a mirror, and his hand reached out to rest between the feline’s ears. “They said it’ll get easier with time, but it isn’t always true, huh. Some days we can smile with the good memories, but it’s a torture waking up on those bad days.”

Church didn’t hiss or growl, merely bumping his head into Stiles’ palm before slipping out, all feline grace and regal air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a bridge, my brain decided to herd me to this particular bridge. Interlude? Maybe. I need the damn bridge anyway. Even when I'd never seen the bridge before. Fans of the book/show, PLEASE ignore the shitload of mistakes.


End file.
